Those Violent Boys
by Fanless
Summary: What they're up to, what they've done. Teatime & Carcer drabbles. Actual rating may vary between chapters. All sorts of allusions, including pairings. Newest: Carcer plays chess and wins — sort of.
1. Teatime: every time she shivers

The cold wraps around her like arms. She looks over her shoulder not because she _feels_ someone's there—she knows damn well there _is_, and it bothers her; she studies the "marble" sometimes, but never, never touches it.

He knows because he's watching her. All the time.

Oh, certainly, he could move on. But he doesn't want to.

Because every time she shivers, so does he; he can't understand—having lived the way he did—what it means: this delicious pleasure-pain, velvet-soft, frightening. But he wants more.

So he sticks around. There's not much else to do, when you're dead.


	2. Carcer: your average typical day

Jewelry in his pockets, blood washed off, and the sun's shining. Mounts a roof and shoots the head off a statue. Gorgeous shot: takes out three Tower ravens, which obviously anyone'd call a bonus.

Steals a pie; practices knife-throwing on the rats outside Gimlet's; takes an Ankhside walk. Pretty girl catches his eye. Tosses her the jewelry, never looking back. Always more to be had.

Someone grabs his shoulder—

"You're _nicked_, chum!"

Snickering from a bolthole as Watchmen thunder past. He _loves _Ankh-Morpork.


	3. Teatime: no chumminess to be found

It wasn't that he didn't _try _to make friends.

He did everything right. Smiles, polite-yet-reassuringly-familiar tones, tidbits of advice. But nobody ever responded properly. It was a untrusting world they lived in; it made him sad, it really did.

He'd even tried an amusing prank, as 'chums' were supposed to, after the group exercise of Lord Dunstanleigh: nobody'd seen the humour in his switching eyeballs with the corpse.

In fact, everyone had transferred out of the set quite suddenly after that.

Perhaps friends had gone out of fashion?


	4. Carcer: eggy and soldiers

The air is lilac-scented in Small Gods.

Carcer isn't there to pay respects, though he's put enough people there to respect all night.

This is _Carcer_.

He's there to be _dis_respectful.

He draws a little face on the egg before smashing it. Doesn't look much like Vimesy—Carcer's no artist (in the traditional sense)—but it does come away from the marble gravestone with a serendipitous crack down its right side.

The fighters of May sleep as Carcer licks his fingertips. He'd been _hungry._


	5. Teatime: artistic comprehension

Teatime liked to draw.

Every gentleman should be able to sketch competently. He'd taken lessons from a wispy woman, nervous of her own shadow even _before _meeting him, who only got worse.

And when Jonathan proudly showed her the drawings from his imagination, her reaction was not exactly what he'd hoped.

The fire brigade had to be called in. It was terribly embarrassing.

It was even more embarrassing when she was taken away by the Watch.

Maybe it was for the best.

Evidently she was a very troubled soul. Teatime was sorry for her.

* * *

_ Happy Easter! Can you find the hidden "Easter egg"? (No, it's not in the previous chapter... think acrostic)_


	6. Carcer: one fine bird

Carcer's life doesn't hold much beauty. He tends not to notice it anyway, unless it's wearing expensive jewels. Mud rarely hides diamonds, no matter what fairytales tell us.

But when _that _comes gliding down the street one afternoon, it's like being struck by a barrelful of immortal flame. That intoxicating scent! That golden skin! Those curvaceous thighs under their shimmering barely-there covering! And, of course, those breasts. Ah, those breasts. No Klatchian poetry could ever begin to compare.

Carcer's faint. He's stricken. He's never _wanted _so badly.

So, salivating, he strolls up to the cart.

"One roast chicken, lad."

Lunchtime.

* * *

_What is it with me, Carcer and food? ..._


	7. Teatime: after the fact

Nobody wanted to talk about it afterwards.

His name was taken off the roll. What few belongings he'd left were swiftly, quietly given away. The Teatime-shaped hole in the Guild ranks was filled by a dark young lady on a scholarship, quite proficient, who sent her pay back to her father in Sto Kerrig.

The Fat Man Attempt became yet another piece of secret locked in the Guild's cavernous mouth of a vault.

But Downey remembered. Carter remembered. Everyone remembered, although nobody wanted to talk about it and nobody knew quite why.

Maybe in a few generations' time it would be a hero's tale. Or maybe it would rot into disgrace, a cautionary tale.

But for now, they gently put it away, along with the blank disks of pure gold.


	8. Carcer: rationalizing, after a fashion

Why're they always after me? It's not like I done anything _wrong_.

...Just cos I defended myself. Bloody Watch dwarf trying to look sneaky with a pie in his hand. A pie! I ask you!

...Duke's got it in for me, haha. They all do.

Just cos I'm no hypocrite. Everyone else, they _wish _someone'd die while they smile in his face every day. Hypocrites, right? Me, I'm an honest man. Innocent, haha. I don't go in for two-faced thinking; I'm a man of action, me. I think of something, I do it.

Know what I think?

They're just _jealous_.


	9. Teatime: this isn't how it should go

_OK, even _I_ admit this one is nasty. (shivers)_

* * *

He's sixteen when the man in the alley beckons, teeth gleaming animal-sharp. Teatime thinks he knows what's next: "Gotta match, mate?" Unlicensed mugger, oh how _uncouth_, he supposes he'd better correct the situation.

Playing innocent: "Well, let's see…"

Knife out, swift and smooth—

Pinned to filthy cobblestones, no room for leverage: he'd gotten _too_ close—that feral grin fills his vision. Hard hands twisting yellow curls, dropping to trousers—

"Pretty, ain'tcha? Better than the usual. Maybe it's true about Assassins, haha…"

Teatime doesn't understand. This wasn't in training.

He'll stumble into the Guild tonight raging, sobbing, pain-blinded, a broken doll.


	10. Carcer: you're my kind of kid

_Oh look, Fanfan isn't writing horrible rapefics for once. Aren't they sweet, girls?_

_This isn't necessarily slash. Interpret as you will.  
_

* * *

"It's not easy to impress me."

Teatime looked up with that bright-eyed look, the keen one that scrubbed the marrow from your bones and only really looked sweet if you were in serious denial. "I don't feel the need to, Mister Dun."

That intelligent look. Carcer hated it. And he was already impressed.

That was a month ago. A month of back-alleys and winning streaks. And now they sit side by side, dividing up their spoils.

"_Damn_." Carcer whistles. "Best catch I ever pulled in on one night."

"Really?"

Carcer chuckles, ruffling Teatime's angel curls. "Besides _you_, that is—haha."


	11. Teatime: watch me fly

Teatime tests the wind. Kissing his hair and caressing his neck, it tastes him back.

Whispering, Ankh-Morpork spreads its splendid rickety arms below him.

_Let me catch you._

Wind buoying his toetips, deliciously teetering over the edge. He's got it all worked out.

Shouts behind; classmates—or tutors—finally reaching the roof trap door. Turning, he smiles reassuringly. Silly them, worrying.

Teatime doesn't bother with anything so crass as a run-up. He simply lets himself fall, arms spread, leaving nothing but laughter-trails as sweet sunlight engulfs his breathless world.

_I will catch myself._

_And if I don't, who's to care?_


	12. Carcer: check this, mate

_A reminder: because I tend to forget that Carcer's actually pretty smart._

* * *

No teeth loose. Ribs fairly unbruised. Let's not talk about the groin, eh? The groin is still a sensitive subject.

But it'd been worth it.

Carcer grins at the memory: his opponent's shapely jaw dropping as his last man fell. That'd teach posh Assassin wannabes like him to underestimate the working class. Even rusty, he'd _trounced_ the bastard. Yeah, so there'd been the Pewter Street ambush afterward, but he'd gotten out alive, which was more than the others could say, right?

It'd been one helluva faceoff. Definitely worth it.

He should play chess more often. And bet higher next time.


End file.
